“When chaste Proserpina had made the ghosts Of women scatter right and left, there came The soul of Agamemnon, Atreus’ son.
He came attended by a throng of those Who in the palace of Aegisthus met A fate like his and died. When he had drunk The dark red blood, he knew me at a look, And wailed aloud, and, bursting into tears, Stretched out his hands to touch me; but no power Was there of grasp or pressure, such as once Dwelt in those active limbs. I could not help But weep at sight of him, for from my heart I pitied him, and spake these winged words:—
“ ‘Most glorious son of Atreus, king of men! How, Agamemnon, has the fate that brings To man the everlasting sleep of death O’ertaken thee? Did Neptune, calling up The winds in all their fury, make thy fleet A wreck, or did thine enemies on land Smite thee, as thou wert driving off their beeves And their fair flocks, or fighting to defend Some city, and the helpless women there?’
“I spake, and Agamemnon thus replied:—
‘Son of Laertes, nobly born and wise, ’Twas not that Neptune calling up the winds In all their fury wrecked me in my fleet, Nor hostile warriors smote me on the land, But that Aegisthus, bent upon my death, Plotted against me with my guilty wife, And bade me to his house and slew me there, Even at the banquet, as a hind might slay A bullock at the stall.
With me they slew My comrades, as a herd of white-toothed swine Are slaughtered for some man of large estates, Who makes a wedding or a solemn feast. Thou hast seen many perish by the sword In the hard battle, one by one, and yet Thou wouldst have pitied us, hadst thou beheld The slain beside